


Whatever Makes You Feel Safe

by LoyalTheorist



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anyone who had to go through Weirdmaggedon is a poor baby, Bill Cipher is the Worst, But Stan and Ford had to deal with other stuff too, Filbrick Pines Is A Jerk, Ford is a poor baby, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It's Stan, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stan - Freeform, Stan is also a poor baby, Underage Drinking, Weirdmageddon deserves its own warning, guess who?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-05-26 05:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14993549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoyalTheorist/pseuds/LoyalTheorist
Summary: In which physical injuries heal faster than mental ones, and "dead" doesn't mean "forgotten".Still, friends and family will almost always try to help.





	1. Mabel

**Author's Note:**

> There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are some who face reality; and then there are those who turn one into the other.  
> – Douglas H. Everett

Two days after Weirdmegeddon, Mabel locked herself in her room and didn't come out for an entire day. She only emerged at around ten 'o clock at night, when she was lured by the concepts of food and water. Even then, even with her family surrounding her and prodding her for answers, she said nothing, ate six frozen waffles, and tried to go back upstairs. 

Dipper grabbed her and pulled her back by one of the long sleeves of her sweater. The two wrestled with each other until they were pulled apart by their Great-Uncles. 

And Mabel had cried. She'd simply colapsed into a bawling mess, and for near half an hour, she just lay on the ground and sobbed. She was surrounded by her family the entire time, and the three sat and waited patiently, saying nothing for fear of disstressing the young girl even more. 

When the tears turned to sniffles, and Mabel rubbed her eyes with balled fists, Stan had taken her by the shoulders, lead her back into the kitchen and sat her down at the table. 

"We're worried about you." He'd said softly, sitting accross from her, and his eyes showed what he was saying was genuine. "What's wrong, pumpkin?"

Mabel had swallowed, not looking at him. 

"Is any of this real?" She'd asked. "Is it over? Am I home?"

"Of course it is!" Exclaimed Dipper, who was standing next to his sister, indignantly. "We won. You saw it happen!"

"How do I know that's real? Everything's been so great, and in MabelLand everything was supposed to be great! This could just be a stupid illusion to make me happy!"

"But are you happy?"

"No. This could be fake!"

"It could." Stated Ford from the doorway.

"Wh-," Stan had begun, but Ford had given him a look and continued.

"It could be fake. But if it were, why would Bill created not one, but two ways he could be defeated? Why would the way he was be because of an oversight? I think, Mabel, if Bill had wanted you to belive he had been defeated it would be through some ridiculously complicated means, something that would never have been possible if you were to escape."

"How do you know?"

"I don't. I could be a construct of your imagination. I honestly don't know. I-,"

"But if you was-," Began Stan, seemingly struck with an idea, before he was interupted by Ford. 

"Were, Stanley."

"Fine. But if you were, would you be telling her that? What do you think, Mabel?"

Mabel thought about it for a moment.

"No." She finally decided. "He'd be trying to reassure me, like Dipper was."

"Exactly." Said Stan, poking her nose. "Only Dipper is a construct."

"What?! No!"

Mabel turned to him. "You're really not helping your case."

"Mabel! I'm not a- I mean, I could be a construct. There. Are you happy?"  
"Yes. What about you, Grunkle Stan? Could you be a construct?"

"Yeah, probably. Though I wouldn't know."

And Mabel was happy, if only for that moment. Sure, it was possible it was all still a lie, but for now, she was fine with being convinced. 


	2. Ford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them.  
> -Edgar Allan Poe

Ford vaugely remembered the time when he would sleep soundly. The nights when he could've rolled into bed (heavens to Betsy,  _bed)_ and he could've fallen into that deep slumber that all-too-often plagues those who work far too hard. How he would be cursed with the occasional nightmare and wake up in a cold sweat. But often it was just regular dreams, the ones that made scarcely a lick of sense. Those days, of course, are long gone, along with the Ford who would shove his hands down into his pockets and would filter out family and friends for the prospect of something he deemed greater. The Ford who, though he pretended otherwise, was far too trusting. Even farther gone was the Ford who would redily call on his twin brother for assistance (though that one, it seemed, had begun to make the long treck back).

The insomniac was gone as well. The manic young man had hardly stayed two months, and Ford hardly recalled any exact thing that had happened during that time. He remembered only the screaming and biting scratching and  _"ah, yes, that's where those tally marks came from."_ He did remember that it had happened, and as he looked upon that memory now, because he had been exausted and reluctant to leave the house to get coffee because  _Cipher was out there, and Cipher was going to kill him. Cipher was in his head, in his head, in his head, and nobody else deserved to have Cipher in their head, and maybe if Ford kept him occupied long enough._  Then came the inevitable " _what is long enough?"_

All the tally marks in the world couldn't keep that one down.

The trouble began when he had already gone through the portal. As soon as he'd found a safe place to do so, he'd colapsed from exastion, and when he got back up he'd found he didn't really want to sleep anymore. Sleeping was like an invitation for Cipher to enter his mind, and that was the last thing he wanted. So he didn't sleep. When he'd begun his travels, one of his first goals was to find something that made it so he didn't have to sleep. Eventually he'd found it (golden apples were indeed a glorious thing) and he'd stockpiled them, and he hadn't slept. Ever. After all, it had been safer that way, when no threats could sneak up on him and slit his throat while he rested.

Now though, he was home, with nothing but caffine to sustain him, and that really wasn't enough anymore. So he listened to music on the kitchen floor, and he cleaned the house, and he alphabetized the bookshelves.  _Cipher is dead._ Said a voice in his mind.  _It's all okay, we can sleep now._ But he found himself pushing it to the back of his thoughts, and continued not sleeping, and were the children starting to give him strange looks?

One night Mabel had quietly padded down the stairs, lured by the faint sounds of ELO, and found Ford in the kitchen, leaning against the refrigerator door.

"What are you doing up so late?" She'd asked.

"I'm an adult." He'd responded, chin held high and dark circles under his eyes. "I don't have a bedtime. Now you, on the other hand-,"

"You haven't been sleeping, have you?"

He was silent.

"You need sleep. It's good for you. You said it yourself!"

"I don't want sleep. I'm fine."

"No! You aren't fine, you big dumb non-sleeper!"

"Shhh. Dipper doesn't sleep sometimes."

"Yeah, but he sleeps more than he doesn't. You just aren't sleeping at all."

"Why would it matter whether I sleep or not? I still play with you during the daytime."

"Yes, but this isn't just about me. It's about you."

Mabel grabbed the radio and threw it against the ground, breaking it.

"There are better ways to turn a radio off."

"I can never find the button. Now come on! We are going to go into the living room, and we are going to snuggle until you fall asleep!"

So they did.

Ford slept that night, and even if he didn't the night after that, he did a few nights from then.

Perhaps he'd never be quite back to what was considered normal.

But that was fine.

He'd live.

He'd sleep.


	3. Wendy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I was a very scared child. Not, you know, not so much of life but of the demons that lurked in the dark. And horror movies terrified me. You know, I'd love watching them but then at night, I would just be up in sweats all night."  
> -Jordan Peele

When Wendy had first hidden in the mall, at the very beginning of Weirdmageddon, there'd been a few other people there. 

A little kid with curly hair who she'd taken a moment to tell everything was going to be alright. After around fifteen minutes, when she was on the second floor, she'd heard a high-pitched scream and had kicked herself for not doing more. 

She'd figured it was an Eye-Bat.

A man who looked like he was in his late fifties who'd triggered the burglar alarm in a jewelry store, likely hoping it would keep him safe. It hadn't, based on the muffled shouts for help.

She'd-she'd just figured it was an Eye-Bat.

A young woman she'd seen hiding inside a clothing rack. She had been crying, if the black streaks down her face and puffy eyes were anything to go by. From her own designated hiding spot in the food court, she'd heard the sharp clicks of someone running in high-heels, and then the feminine shrieks as the'd echoed in the halls. 

That was the first hint she'd gotten that it wasn't an Eye-Bat, because the clicks of heels were acompinied by a the wet sound of something inhuman dragging itself across the floor. 

Then there were others, the ones that she hadn't seen, the ones who made her feel increasingly nauseous because the noises they made kept getting closer. 

She wasn't sure what would've happened if she had gone out there. Maybe she would have died. She probably would've died, she told herself. 

Because what had been out there was not an Eye-Bat. 

After several hours, the time between screams and shouts and the crying had increased, and as it had been a while without any sound at all (but that strange dragging, which she'd forgotten about after constantly hearing it for so long), she'd left her position in the food court. 

She'd turned the corner.

She'd seen it.

It resembled a maggot, with its slimy white rings dragging across the ground. One end of it stuck up into the air, and at the end of that...

There was a head. A head whose shape was human, with a neck that came out of the end in a way that was almost funny, and Wendy wanted to laugh at it, because it was funny, wasn't it funny, wasn't it funny how she was about to die?

It didn't have a face. Just a big black hole that crooked teeth stuck out of, countless teeth. The number seemed to get bigger with every millisecond that passed. 

It smelled, she noticed, as long green tongues wrapped around her arms and began to draw her closer to it. She walked foreward in a daze, and as she got close she heard a voice, a voice that sounded like everyone she'd ever met all at once say something she would never ever forget. 

"You are happy."

In the end, it was that that had snapped her out of her trance, that had made her realize what was happening. She had fought the tongue around her right arm and reached down to her waist and grabbed the axe she'd kept there since the day she'd turned thirteen.

She'd hit the creature's side, and it had dissolved, leaving nothing, like it had never been there in the first place. 

But it had, and sometimes when she was alone she could've sworn she heard that same voice say that same thing to her.

"You are happy."

Sometimes she'd be talking to someone, and instead of saying something normal, it'd sound like they would say it, the line that haunted her dreams. 

"You are happy."

She'd been speaking with Stan when it happened for what felt like the millionth time, and even though she knew that wasn't really what he'd said (Stan was the last person she'd think would tell people what to feel) she'd shouted at him.

"I'm not happy!"

The old man had looked taken aback by her suddenness. His eyes, wich had been sparkling mischievously, amused by their playful banter and clearly ready with quite a few retorts, were now filled with concern.

"Never said you were. You don't have to be happy to be a bean pole. You okay kid? Wait, that's a stupid question, you just said you weren't happy. How are things...with your dad?"

Wendy couldn't breathe. She'd just said she wasn't happy and Stan didn't seem to be mad. Wasn't she supposed to be happy? Wasn't everyone supposed to be happy all the time?

A voice in the back of her head said that wasn't the way the world worked, that it wasn't true, but the rest of her brain didn't believe it.

"They're fine." She assured him, not meeting his gaze. 

"You sure? You're not just saying that 'cause that's what you're supposed to say?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, then...what about other kids? They picking on you?"

"No? What is it, then? Whatever it is, I'll understand. Or I won't, in wich case you're gonna want to talk to ether Ford or Mabel, depending on what it is."

"None of you can understand!"

"You won't even let me try, though. I _could_ understand. I been through some weird stuff."

"You weren't there! Why aren't you mad?"

"So you're doing this thing Ford does sometimes, when he's trying to expain something, but failing because he's leaving holes where the explaination part should be."

 "It was during-," Wendy choked. Was she crying? "Weirdmageddon -,"

"Crap."

"What?"

"I-uh, triangle man was full of crap, you hear me?"

"It's not about him, it's-it's about something else. A thing, a big thing, a big...thing...,"

She really was crying, wasn't she?

"Hey, hey, kid, Wendy, listen. It's okay. It's okay."

"Why aren't-why aren't you mad at me? Aren't I supposed to be happy?"

"About some stupid thing you saw during the literal apocalypse? No, not unless you're some kinda crazy person. Are you a crazy person?"

"It-it said I should be happy. It said I was-was...happy."

"Well, you know, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret everyone but you seems to know. Those things are liars. You want to talk about it? Fine. You don't? Also fine. Dipper's been talking our ears off 'bout his days in the woods, bet you can confide in him. Mabel's good at hugs. Ford's seen plenty of horrifying stuff that messes with your head. As for me, I got some good old fashioned jokes for you. Just, you know, remember, you feel what you feel, and that's fine."

Wendy nodded and rubbed at her eyes, and she really was happy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am basing Pacifica's self-lothing on my own previous problems. I don't come anywhere near knowing as much as a psychologist does about it. I am sorry if this offends you. That is not, and never will be my goal.

She's small, she knows she is. She doesn't eat much, but she's fine. She eats enough.

 

She's weak, she knows she is. She never really had to do anything for herself. She liked golfing, and she supposes that counts as a sport. She doesn't like golfing anymore, though.

 

All the other girls are bigger than her. All the other girls are stronger then her. She persists. She's smart, she tells herself, with a force that comes from somewhere deep inside her.

 

But what if she's not? Asks a voice from somewhere else. What if she's just sly and coy and conniving?

 

You're smart, she'd tell herself before.

 

But now that's gone, replaced by a scar that reaches all the way down her leg to her ankle.

 

She is small, small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. She is weak, weak enough to break her leg after a measly three-foot drop. She is stupid, stupid enough not to realize that screaming will only draw the horrors you were running from closer.

 

Another link in the world's worst chain.

 

Another link in the world's worst chain.

 

Another link in the world's worst chain.

 

She stares into the mirror, at her brilliant blue eyes and shiny golden waves of hair that radiate down her back in a way that makes her look as though she is the sun itself.

 

 _I hate you,_ she screams into the reflection, the reflection of the pretty Northwest girl who has always acted like a rich bitch. _How does it feel, living with us rats? I wish you would crawl into a hole and die. You don't deserve anything you have. We hate you. Everyone hates you. You hate yourself. If that's not proof you don't deserve anything, I don't know what is._ Even the wounds that have healed over are somehow reopened. _Your parents didn't want to have you. You were an accident. A stupid mistake. If you weren't so pretty they'd have drowned you the first chance they got._ Every day is like taking another step deeper into the absolute puddle of vomit she feels has become her mind. Always was her mind.

It hurts, but she doesn't care. She deserves it. She deserves to hurt like this, to scream at herself in her head until she falls to the floor sobbing simply because she can't take the mental abuse she's been throwing at herself. She'll curl herself up on the thin carpet and bang her head against the padded wood until she really just can't anymore.

 

Then it goes numb. Pacifica Northwest feels nothing. She is not okay, but she has to be. Because she has to be big and strong and smart like everyone else.

 

_Nobody would have noticed if you had died._

 

Nobody hears her. The screams in her head fall on the deaf ears of a girl who has already heard it all. It's all just a grinding, pounding sound that makes the lights tremble and the ground shake.

 

But no, it doesn't. Nothing happens. Pacifica's throat tightens. She swallows. She's tired. She just wishes everything would end, here and now, but it doesn't.

 

"Are you okay?"

 

"Yeah, I'm fine."

 

There's a hand on her shoulder.

 

"Really?"

 

"Yeah."

 

On and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on.

 

It doesn't get any better. She just gets more tired. She wishes, she really wishes, she really wishes it would end.

The girl who approaches her is nondescript, practically invisible, but Pacifica has seen her around. She's always watching people.

"I've seen the things you write in your notebooks." She says, then she hugs Pacifica. "I'm sorry."

They talk. They talk for hours on end about every thing imaginable.

Maybe, Pacifica feels, she'll think about herself the way a normal person does. 

Maybe, someday, if she fights hard enough, she'll make it back to okay. But she's not there yet, so she leans against Angelina and talks. 


End file.
